Both of us were naked, me more so. Per my instruction, Maria was not to remove the diaphanous brassiere, a cherry red balconet purchased on a pink plastic card from Victoria's Secret, a gift sent her way by me.
Standing still at the foot of the bed, knees slightly bent, swollen member at the ready, the soles of my feet savored the cool springy texture of royal blue carpet in this sumptuously appointed hotel suite in Emerald City.
Centered in the bed, aloft on knees and elbows, Maria faced me. Juicy boobs apprehended in filmy, racy red silhouettes. Maria's tight behind, proudly jutting out. On her back, quite low, a tattooed butterfly scribed in ruby, indigo, and jade ink. Directly above her shaved pubis a leaping dolphin figured in a dull sea green shade. Both tattoos on occasion doused by my sperm. This seed was melted pearls in glutinous strands, my essence; a savory potion, a creamy concoction distilled of lust and sodomy and dominance and solid humping of this hard bodied vixen named Maria.
Our unions always involved ordering Maria to swallow my semen in one of her orifices, licking her lips and asking for more. I shot my viscous concentrate into her snappily grasping pussy, maybe her supple mouth, often the bung hole, pried open with my cock as I flayed her with the tangled cords of a leather whip. Such foreplay a means to an end, terminating in her spanking by my hand, smacks of a paddle or the sound breaking snap, crackle and pop of the cat o nine tails she so cherished.
When darkness fell over the city, we would walk to the Grill House for dinner. Then a side trip to Haven of Jazz. Back to the hotel where a wide black leather collar studded with silver buttons, fake rhinestones rested in my bag and a pair of five inch black patent leather pumps sat on the floor in the closet. She will crawl about the floor at my beck and call, a silent voluptuous, voracious beast under my heel. Commanded to gently suck my gonads, reverently lick my prick and take in her mouth, pussy, the ass. Ordered to lick my anus, pleading for abasement; under my influence her status that of a depraved whore. Experiencing untold happiness, intense orgasms seldom realized doing my bidding.
The suite Maria and I occupied high above downtown Emerald City looked down on the blue ribbon of the sound snaking its way to the Pacific Ocean. From our window we could see the leisurely passage of black and white ferries, waterfront warehouses, the stadiums, and the blue and gold monolith of the Emerald City Tower in all its majestic glory.
Watercolors on walls, wing back chairs upholstered in buttery black leather, tacked with brass buttons, oak armoire with silver curlicue handles, a polished Regency desk and drawn sapphire velvet drapes mutely witnessed our proclivities through that recent long weekend.
This pretty woman, gorgeous actually, blessed with a heavenly body, was and remains my lover. I met her on the Internet. People earn doctorates on the worldwide web, take college courses, order theater tickets, buy sex toys and play games. If I am lucky, I sometimes meet a woman, a potential sex partner and then an actual sexual collaborator. I am no shark cruising about searching for any prey to tangle with. I do have standards, but like a good many others I have availed myself of the Sexual Healing website run by the Tri-Time Corporation. For $19.95 a month as a registered gold member, I read spicy and steamy profiles, looked at photographs of all sorts of women and communicated with females sharing my fondness for certain sexual high jinks.
What did we do before this web draped the world, wired everyone into the all-embracing grid? I do remember a time bumping into women in such places as sticky hot laundry mats, Muzak swathed grocery stores and crossing a verdant park's oriental bridge. Once, a woman whom I fucked after our two cars bumped into each other as we both turned left headed to a Safe-Way parking lot. I say bump, no damage was done and no fender bending occurred.
Most fortuitously for me, not so for Charity, she had recently discovered her husband in an act of infidelity. The front of my ten year old Pontiac gently licked the bumper of her relatively new Nissan. Not one hour later I was licking Charity after cutting a slit in her panty hose with a serrated steak knife. I fucked her; she went down on me. This scorned, mad as hell, good looking woman, called her husband while squatting on my cock, told him what we were doing in their shared bed. I only fucked her one afternoon but oh what an afternoon with the shearing of her hatful panty hose, binding her to an antique dining room chair with a length of musty smelling rope from the two car garage, fucking her mouth. My semen shot into her blond hair, dried on a cheek. The crust of semen, the souring scent of spent sex hanging in the air, the rope Charity cheerfully asked me to loosen, a welcome home vista for hubby stepping into the house from the two car garage. All she needed to complete the tableau, a banner reading "Fuck You Roger." I did my duty and left.
In less then 90 days, the first trimester of pregnancy, time to convert a civilian into what in the military is called a shaved tailed officer, one quarter of a year, Maria and I were now seasoned fuck buddies.
I saw her profile on the Sexual Healing site. Attached to her explicit profile was a crystal-clear close-up of her bust, a lovely big bust for one and all members to see. She wore a low-cut eye catching garment, part of a cocktail dress or something equally feminine and ferociously erotic. Our first gambit, coy, introductory emails opening dialogue between us sent from afar. Electronic mail dispatched with the flash of light. Each of us contended with hectic schedules so the write to read speed of these missives was significantly diminished regardless of how fast they came in. She transmitted pictures, hard by shots of her tits in black red and yellow bras, no facial images sent my way, her comfort factor not quite there yet. In text, me using 12 point Courier blue fonts, her emails, Times Roman in bubblegum pink ten point fonts.
Committed to the same fonts in Whiz Bang Messenger we chatted there, sent longer messages as emails. Both of us were adept painting vivid pictures in words. Maria told of her predilection for eye fetching garments showing off her alluring body, her adulation wearing come fuck me pumps, a marked fondness for spanking and struggling against knots, straps or similar instruments used in bondage. Asking her if she enjoyed sucking cock, her answer triggered a most impressive release of my semen as I sat in front of the Dell computer.
Call me Nameless. I am an anonymous federal bureaucrat sucking the government's tit. I am but one worker bee amidst hundreds of thousands of other worker bees droning in government hives. We are taxpayers salaried by tax dollars. I work out of a cubicle in an office; wear a tie, a suit. My brown or black oxford shoes always gleam, my blond hair is shorn short, and my life is well ordered and tranquil. I enjoyed the small sweet things in life: listening to my tropical fish tank gurgle, drinking Starbuck's espresso roast from my favorite mug, reading the latest book written by Bill Bryson or Robert Caro or Dan Brown, listening to Wagner, Tchaikovsky or Hank Williams. I do not worry about what comes next. My lust to dominate Maria and several other like minded women remains a closely guarded secret as do several other passions.
I wrote Maria, communicated my attraction to her, my enjoyment dominating submissive females, my affection for spanking and tying up acquiescent women.
To perceive Maria was quintessentially my kind of woman through and through took little to no time. This busty, voluptuous woman, glowing auburn hair dangling on her smooth shoulders, favoring come fuck me pumps and low-cut garments, I saw passion, an earthy erotic attitude, a promise of untold bliss and most captivating of all, a compliant enticing sexpot. A most important detail since I was the dominant member of this parley. Maria favored colorful low-cut brassieres and sexy figure hugging dresses showing lots of cleavage and slit to show off a burnished thigh. She is leggy, Betty Grable and Mary Hart leggy. She never wears panty hose or panties for that matter, favors sheer hose clipped to garter belts and owns a wide assortment of come fuck me pumps of every description.
Talking on the telephone followed emails and Whiz Bang messenger chatting. The telephone, a landline or sometimes we spoke on cell phones, our disembodied voices digitally processed and crystal clear. We conversed, we chattered; eventually we experienced the pleasures of aural sex.
Maria told me of growing up in Chicago; I was raised in the state to its right, a small town on the Indiana/Ohio border closer as the crow flies to Dayton, Ohio then Indianapolis. Her laughter, its warm, sexy and happy tones reached my ears as merry melodies. I told her of not quite fucking the daughter of an empty headed Nazi goon living in the Windy City. The daughter, a blond, whose old man no doubt imagined as the ultimate example of Aryan femininity, wore a tight red sweater emblazoned with a large black swastika and a short pleated white skirt when I first saw her at an American Nazi Party rally held in a Chicago park near Lake Michigan. The revolting symbol on her bodice might as well have been a chastity belt, a force field keeping me out. I could not make myself plug Inga anymore then I could fuck Fraulein Hitler nee Braun or Fra Goebbels.
A horned dog at an early age; I still had some principals thank God.
